


crumble (like solitude hasn't hardened your soul)

by daredvvil



Series: bleeding truths [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 15:47:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15246603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daredvvil/pseuds/daredvvil
Summary: (There, under Howards dark glare, something in Anthony twisted and cracked orange-bright with a sickening pop, dread spilling into his lungs and loneliness pooling heavy in his gut.)Tony has always known how it feels to bealone.





	crumble (like solitude hasn't hardened your soul)

**Author's Note:**

> the end was supposed to be about steve and tony but i couldnt really see tony having any sort of outward reaction to steve after all he went through in infinity war, so somehow i ended up with this??? i dont know if i like it but its something!!! (also, extra credit to anyone who spots the zeugma, aka my favorite figure of speech)

He was barely six (  _ with grease under his nails and splinters in his smile _ )  when Howard took him by his shoulder, his grip tight and terrible, and led him into his office for the first time. The desk there stood tall and foreboding, and Howard more so, posture stiff and expression stern.

Anthony couldn't remember doing anything wrong, no broken tools or useless projects, no pointless tears or misplaced plans. Yet, Howard’s arms were crossed and his lips curled downwards in a cruel frown, (  _ like the threat of broken bones and bitter flames, like tears and terror and desperation _ )  like they did everytime Anthony was  _ bad _ . It was a familiar expression, achingly present since before he could remember, but with the desk between them, the stack of weapon designs adorning it, and the dimness of the study, it took on a novelty that was terrifying.

( There, _ under Howards dark glare, something in Anthony twisted and cracked orange-bright with a sickening pop, dread spilling into his lungs and loneliness pooling heavy in his gut. _ )

Howard leaned forward, eyes searching, razor edges sharp and deadly, breath stained with the bitter stench of alcohol. “I had expected more from you by now, Anthony.” His voice was terribly cold. 

Anthony’s shoulders slumped a fraction, weighted with some shattered sense of pride, of worth, but his chin remained high and his eyes remained empty. Howard’s disappointment was nothing new, nothing unexpected.

“I’m sorry, father,” Anthony said, voice low in the threatening abyss of the office, practiced words that never worked (  _ repeated to Jarvis, to the mirror, to his projects and his tools, and anything that could listen, because maybe then they wouldn't lead to brittle iron and soured disappointment _ ) . “How can I do better?”

His frown deeper and arms crossed, Howard explained, words too complex for Anthony and theories beyond his education, of wants and needs, of the  _ company _ and a  _ legacy _ . 

When he was done, Anthony returned to his room, eyes still empty and jaw locked. He crawled under his bed (  _ a hiding spot born of blood and red handprints and purple-green bruises _ )  and cried lonely, rusted tears.

( Later, _ Jarvis would make him crumb cake and hot tea, and he'd soothe Anthony's jagged edges into something resembling innocence. _ )

  
**◇◇◇**  
  


Rhodey seemed far away in the hazy light of the club, distorted and cast in broken purples and harsh blues, come to haul Tony away from the heavy air and thundering music (  _ from the hope that the lightning would rend his soul from his body, ever a swirling pit of rust orange and angry scars _ ) .

He'd haul him up the stairs to their apartment, all loose limbs and unsteady steps. The world would a blur, ruptured and halved down its center, as they climbed.

There was always a blanket, soft around his shoulders and so inferior to the warmth of Rhodey's hands (  _ always present when Tony was splitting apart at his seams, slow and steady and loving _ ) . So he'd grasp them in his, burning coals against his shaking fingers, and press his face to their palms, shoulders hitching with unbidden sobs as he held himself together.

When he moved to pull away, Rhodey would stop him, fingers gentle against the crooks of Tony’s elbows, eyes wide and desperate in the dark of the room as he pleaded.

( The _ pock-marks, the holes where his stitches had split and nothing had sewn him back together, ached everytime Rhodey's tearful eyes met his. _ )

  
**◇◇◇**  
  


Rogers was in his home when he got back, broad shoulders low and eyes tired, beard unkempt, the image of misery in a world half empty. Tony shook his hand (  _ he choked on the poison in his mouth, the bitter, broken words on his tongue _  ) and smiled, an echo of something grand, of something perfect.

Nebula was behind him (  _ and behind her was the ship they'd plastered together with desperation and vengeance and old, rusted hope _ )  her arms crossed and her glower dark, as her blue skin shined under the harsh sunlight. Rogers looked like he wanted to question him, but then his eyes flickered to the reactor in Tony's chest and he paled, fingers ticking against his leg. Irritation welled in Tony, shoulders tensing, pressing against the stitches keeping his abdomen and composure held together. 

“It's good to know you're alive, Tony,” Steve finally managed, voice uneven and quiet. 

( “Anthony, _ I must insist we stop playing for a moment,” Jarvis would smile down at Tony, eyes bright and gleaming. He’d sweep the young boy up and into his arms, against his chest, faking sadness as he lamented, “I am not as young as I once was.”  _ )

All Tony wanted to do was throw himself forward and slam his fist into Rogers’ face, to force that sad look out of him, because Steve wasn't the only one who had lost someone (  _ cradled so carefully in Tony’s arms  _ ).

( Tony _ would let Jarvis carry him into the house if Howard wasn't around, happy and warm and safe. Then they'd eat, ceramic plates pristine beneath peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. _ )

“You didn't feel that way in Siberia,” he bit out, teeth bared in a false smile. Without looking he grabbed Nebula’s wrist, the metal cool beneath his fingers, and moved to stalk past Rogers, teeth clenched with anger and so many things beyond.

As he passed, eyes glaring steadfastly away from Rogers, he let himself look up, towards the compound, his breath catching in his throat when he saw who had just exited the building.

( “Jarvis,” _ Tony muttered, half into his sandwich, “will I ever not be lonely?” A second passed before Jarvis was turning his seat, facing him resolutely. His fingers brushed into Tony’s hair, gentle and loving. “One day, Anthony, you will find someone who will chase all the loneliness away.” _ )

Joy, sharp and painful, lanced through every inch of Tony’s body as his hand fell from Nebula’s, his legs moving him without bidding, forward and forward until he was safe in Rhodey's arms, just as he had been in Afghanistan all those years ago, freshly home from knocking on death’s door. Warmth coursed through him, Rhodey's arms dragging him up and up and up (  _ and Tony could finally breathe. Could look past the the dust on his hands and see how to finally fix this.  _ )

Hope bloomed in his stomach with blistering force, harsh and brilliant and entirely new.

( _And_ _ in the crumbling ruins, the first brick was replaced.  _ )

**Author's Note:**

> guess who wrote a shitty sequel!  
> its just like they say! the second is always worse, you shoulda quit while you were ahead


End file.
